


Primary Colors

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, Enjolras POV, Gen, friendship fluff, the triumvirate are fucking helpless without one another
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21763135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Courfeyrac is gone for a week, and Combeferre and Enjolras are Adults who can totally cope with that.Warnings:passing reference to smoking, casual alcohol consumption
Relationships: Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	Primary Colors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnaBolena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/gifts).



> Happy Friendship Anniversary, AnnaB! Lots of love, always, and I'm looking forward to our upcoming daily texting anniversary. ;)
> 
> Speaking of "lots of love," thank you so much to [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) for being an amazing beta-reader and bending over backwards to keep up with my writing habits.

**_Sunday_ **

“I already gave all of the treasury documents to Marius—”

“Yes Courfeyrac.”

“—and there’s leftovers in your freezer, but for God’s sake don’t try to reheat the frozen soup by microwaving it—”

“All right, Courfeyrac.”

“—for thirty minutes—”

“We’ve got it, Courfeyrac.”

“—in plastic tupperware—”

“Courfeyrac—” 

_“—again—”_

“We know, Courfeyrac,” assures Enjolras.

“And _please_ remember to go outside sometimes for literally any socialization besides classes and meetings, you’re both _terrible_ at pacing yourselves—”

“Courf,” smiles Combeferre good-naturedly, “it’s only a week.”

“But it’s a week that I won’t have cell signal _or_ a computer.”

Biting back a smile, Enjolras puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Ferre’ll be here: between the two of us, I think we can get by.”

“Implying that Ferre isn’t just as bad: he’s the one who gave the go-ahead on your whole reheating experiment,” declares the man with a dismissive sniff. “Not to mention that I know the coffee consumption of your household, and you, Enjolras, are hardly the worst culprit.”

Combeferre doesn’t even have the decency to look bashful. “I have needs.”

“You have an addiction,” Courfeyrac accuses before glancing down at his watch and chewing his lip. “Maybe I should stay.”

Guilt twinges in Enjolras’s chest. “We’ll be fine, it’s a week. You’ve been looking forward to seeing your extended family all year.”

“We can operate without you,” Combeferre joins in in assuring. “Promise.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes dart back and forth between the two of them before the man settles for throwing his arms around both of them. “I’m just gonna miss you,” he laments into their arms. “I know it’s silly, it’s only a week, but—”

“We’re gonna miss you too,” Enjolras murmurs, rubbing circles across Courfeyrac’s back. “It’ll be the hardest part of the next week.”

Pulling back, Courfeyrac sniffles, a watery smile crossing his features. “Harder than figuring out how to reheat soup?”

“It will be now,” Combeferre answers with a shit-eating grin, reducing Enjolras and the other third of their trio to giggles.

With his spirits visibly raised, Courfeyrac clears his throat and straightens. “My flight gets in Saturday at 6:30, think you can last that long?”

Combeferre's tone is dry, but warmth wraps around his words when he responds, “I think we can manage.”

Courfeyrac’s curls bob as he nods. “Check up on Ponpon for me, will you?”

“Courf—”

“Just once!” A devilish looks crosses his features. “Or maybe I should ask him to check up on you instead?”

“We’ll check up on him,” Enjolras insists, a grin unfurling across his face as he rolls his eyes. “Now get moving, or you’re not going to have a choice in the matter of whether or not you stay.”

Courfeyrac winks and blows kisses all the way to security, Enjolras and Combeferre staying behind the rope divider as they wave their friend off. They don’t leave until he’s out of sight; satisfied that he is unlikely to get lost between where they left him and the gate, they begin picking their way through the airport and back to the parking garage. 

Once there, they find Combeferre’s economic sedan with minimal difficulty located between a nondescript coupe and a flashy sports car. Enjolras doesn’t put nearly as much effort as he probably should into opening the passenger-side door with more care than it takes to avoid scratching the canary-yellow paint from the other vehicle.

As they settle into their seats, he crosses his arms. “You were just lecturing me last week on my caffeine habits.”

The corner of Combeferre’s mouth raises slightly as he inserts the key into the ignition. “You and I operate under different conditions for life, my dear friend."

"Oh?" Enjolras prompts, corner of his mouth already tugging upward.

"You, despite what Dionysus’s whispers to Grantaire might insinuate, have mortal needs.” The car revs to life. “And I do not.”

_**Monday** _

The tie is already being loosened from around Enjolras’s neck as the door to his and Combeferre’s flat shuts behind him. Not that he’s ever hungry, but the contents of the kitchen don’t especially call to him right now, so he settles instead for heading directly to his room. Once he’s thrown himself across his bed in a suitably dramatic fashion, he recalls that his phone is still in his letterbag.

Usually he’s content to leave it there until dinner as he recovers from his day, and he knows he’s not waiting on any particularly breaking news, but it feels like something he should have with him today, just in case. It takes a full minute for the nagging feeling to overrule the total exhaustion in his limbs, but eventually it does win out, and he rolls himself to the edge of his bed to retrieve the device. 

Predictably, no missed texts or calls.

With a sigh, he opens a news app, scrolling through what fresh hell he’s missed out on since lunchtime. A new scandal with a minor politician, more breaking climate change statistics, speculation on how society might have been different had a particular constellation been kept in circulation: nothing that catches his interest in a more than fleeting way. Reassuming his starfish position in the center of his bed, he lays there with his eyes closed and the phone resting loosely in his grip until restlessness gets the better of him. _Time to study,_ he supposes.

Before moving to his desk, he glances at his phone: still no missed texts or calls.

The session begins productively enough: he knocks out a minor current events paper and finds two new potential sources for his thesis, but around the time that he begins his first reading for the night his pace begins to falter, concentration broken up by intermittent glances at his phone.

(no missed texts or calls)

He’s been staring at the same page and absorbing none of it for twenty minutes when his phone finally vibrates, and Enjolras nearly knocks it off of his desk in his enthusiasm to answer. A great _crash_ sounds from elsewhere in the apartment that hopefully covers up the cacophony that follows his recovery.

_[Group call started]_

_[Group call ended]_

**[19.49] Prouvaire:** sry all !!!!!

Clenching his teeth, Enjolras firmly replaces his phone in the edge of the desk. A growl rumbles from low in his stomach, and he’s reminded that this week there won’t be a Courfeyrac poking his head around the flat to make sure that both of them have eaten. It’s as good a reason as any to take a break.

Empty-handed, he crosses the hall to Combeferre’s room, giving the closed door two firm raps. “I’m about to warm up some leftovers.”

“Be right out,” his roommate calls back.

Enjolras looks between the kitchen and his desk.

He grabs his phone.

No missed texts or calls.

By the time Combeferre finally emerges from his room, Enjolras has just settled on a dinner of bagels. (The cream cheese has vegetables in it, Joly gave him an only vaguely uncomfortable smile when he explained the logic behind it, it’s basically nurse-approved.)

Seeing the selection, Combeferre gives him an amused expression on his way to the fridge. _Not feeling brave enough for soup, were we?_

 _Shut up,_ Enjolras projects with a gentle kick, more of a nudge than a proper assault. _But no, I wasn’t._

Combeferre evidently bears no such apprehension, and the two move around each other easily as they go about their dining preparations. Neither of their meals require more than the briefest amount of assembly, and soon they are both plating their food with varying results but equal disregard for aesthetic. Their apartment has no room for a proper dining set, so they eat leaned back against the counter with their dishes in-hand.

Having never learned to pace himself, Enjolras finishes well-before Combeferre and moves to the sink to begin washing his dishes. Were Courfeyrac here, he’d probably drag Enjolras by the ear back to the couch where they usually eat Mondays and make him wash everyone’s tableware as penance for leaving what would probably have been a riveting conversation.

Courfeyrac is not here, though, so there is nothing at all wrong with it.

Something stops Enjolras from relocating to his room as soon as his dishes are finished being washed. Turning to face Combeferre, he crosses his arms and settles uncomfortably back against the countertop.

“Phone, huh?” he says, nodding his head to indicate where both of their devices lay on the counter beside him. He doesn’t have to say any more: Combeferre has a strict personal policy against having his phone out in eating spaces.

The man nods. “Phone.”

It would be easy to press, but in truth there’s no question Enjolras could ask right now that he doesn’t suspect he already knows the answer to. Nodding slowly, he pushes himself away from the counter and grabs his own device before starting toward his room. “G’night then.”

“Sleep well.”

In the privacy of his room, he checks his phone one last time: no missed texts or calls.

**_Tuesday_ **

When Enjolras returns from his internship, he wastes no time showering, changing into pajamas, and returning to the living room with everything he should need for the rest of the night. Years ago meticulous experimentation had been undertaken to determine that their microwave’s popcorn setting is suitable for the average bag, and Enjolras takes advantage of those cautious weeks of trial and error now, starting one before returning to His Seat.

It’s another hour before Combeferre gets home from his night class. He barely pauses before following Enjolras’s footsteps, and hardly ten minutes have passed when the man settles down in His own respective Seat on the opposite side of the couch and digging into his coursework.

Studying is easier tonight with company, at least one of their routines adhered to (Tuesdays they have dinner on their own, and it’s a painful relief not to have to watch Combeferre go through the motions of eating the same soup a third day in a row). Still, the room is deafeningly quiet, and the space between them that a certain third party would normally occupy is undoubtedly Reserved.

Combeferre pushes his blanket to the side, and when his friend disappears down the hallway Enjolras fears that their charade has come to an abrupt close. Instead, his roommate returns with a familiar mp3 player, plugging it into the speakers in the corner and letting the room flood with music. It probably should be distracting, but Enjolras finds his nerves calming as the med student retires to the couch once more.

Several minutes of slightly more effective studying pass before the song changes and Enjolras recognizes the collection Combeferre has chosen for the night.

“Spice Girls?” he asks, eyebrows high in amusement.

Looking up from his textbook, Combeferre soberly addresses Enjolras. “Their discography is incredible.”

The stare is held for a moment, as if Combeferre expects Enjolras to challenge the selection or acknowledge out loud why it has been so effective at settling them.

Enjolras does neither, instead nodding in agreement “They do seem to know what they want.”

“What they really, really want,” comes the deadpan response, the med student’s eyes already returning to the textbook in his lap. 

With that established, they wordlessly resume their work.

**_Wednesday_ **

Wednesday mornings are usually rare comforts: Enjolras’s internship is in the afternoon, followed by night classes; Combeferre’s only morning class has optional attendance on non-test days, and he’s on night-shift for rotations; and Courfeyrac, by some miracle, always manages to maintain Wednesday off from work.

Their weekly brunch has never been sadder.

It’s a gloomy day outside, Enjolras’s normal order is unavailable, and Combeferre brought his sad, sad soup out to eat in a sad, sad, only partially-melted and perfectly serviceable tupperware container. Even their usual waitress appears melancholy in the face of the conspicuous absence.

“You know who’s probably really struggling?” Combeferre volunteers suddenly.

“Everyone, under capitalism as we currently know it.” Yes, he’s being an angsty, morose teen—he had those years stolen from him by climate change, sue him.

It doesn’t change that he is definitely deserving of the deadpan he receives in response from Combeferre before the man answers his own question. “Marius.”

Marius, of course! “He must be absolutely beside himself with misery,” Enjolras reflects out loud, trying not to sound so excited at the prospect.

“Paralyzed with distress,” Combeferre agrees, “and we promised Courfeyrac we’d pay him a visit.”

“It’s our duty as friends.” Privately Enjolras had decided all those long days ago— _51 entire hours_ —that Thursday’s Les Amis meeting would be satisfactory, but upon realizing that Combeferre and he might be able to put their whinging to good use he’s reminded that there is no time like the present. “Do you know his schedule?”

Combeferre’s expression shifts ever-so-minutely, but to Enjolras it is clear as day how unimpressed his roommate is with the question. _Obviously not._

Neither of them acknowledges the unspoken thought that sits between them of who would. 

“I’ll just text him, then.”

As it turns out, Pontmercy gets out of class at ten on Wednesdays. “Hey, come on in!” he tells them, stepping aside to allow them into the flat. Two years ago the auburn would have shied away from any visitors, and it’s a true testament to the effects of Courfeyrac’s open kindness that Marius welcomes them now.

It’s strange to be in Courfeyrac’s apartment without him there: evidence of the man’s presence surrounds Enjolras and makes his heart ache with false hope.

“So, what brings you here? Is this about the meeting tomorrow?”

Combeferre remains quiet as he surveys the space, so Enjolras accepts the burden of explanation. “Actually, we wanted to…check on you.”

Marius’s expression immediately shifts to disbelief. “‘Check on me’?” His eyes narrow at them. “Did Courf put you up to this?”

There’s no point in lying, and he and Combeferre exchange a glance before the latter clears his throat. “He did suggest as much, but we’re in truth here to make sure that you’re managing. Emotionally.” He pauses, giving Marius a measured once-over. “I’m sure it’s been rather lonely without him here, and we—”

“Not really.”

It’s unlikely that he gives himself whiplash, but Enjolras feels better for having a medical student there with him. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean,” Marius stutters, backtracking, “it’s definitely quiet around here, but it’s not like I don’t have other friends.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows at Combeferre, the latter wetting his lips before Enjolras beats him to the point with probably less tact than whatever the other man had been preparing to say. “Really?”

An offended look wouldn’t have gone amiss, but Pontmercy is too gentle for that. “Well, yeah. I mean, Courf lives here on paper, but realistically he spends most of his time out and about. You didn’t think I just sat at home twiddling my thumbs until he got back every time he went out to see you guys, did you?”

He can’t even find it in himself to feel guilty: yes, that is exactly what Enjolras thought happened.

“So you’re…” Squinting at the spindly mess of limbs in front of them, Combeferre’s brow furrows. “Okay?”

Marius shrugs. “I mean, I miss him, don’t get me wrong, but I have tons of things I’ve been meaning to catch up on that are significantly easier to get around to when Courf isn’t dragging me along on every misadventure he comes across.”

Beside him he feels Combeferre prickling, and Enjolras can’t blame him: certainly, the expeditions on their own are hardly worth the time investment in most cases, but they’re expeditions with _Courfeyrac._

“Well then,” Combeferre tells the unappreciative scarecrow, “with that settled, Enjolras has an internship to be off to, and I’m his ride.” He has another three hours until he needs to be there, but Marius doesn’t know that.

“Oh, do you have a special event that you need to be in early for?” Marius _shouldn’t_ know that. As if in answer to their thoughts, the man hastily explains, “Your schedules are taped to the fridge.”

_Curse Courfeyrac’s ever-enduring sentimentality._

“Um. It doesn’t have to be now if you’re busy,” Marius starts, “but I’d actually been hoping to get in touch with one of you before tomorrow’s meeting. I just have some questions about the notes Courf gave me and what my role in the meeting will entail.”

Taking a deep breath, Enjolras counts backwards from three before answering. “I think they can get by without me for a few minutes. What do you need help with?”

Thirty minutes later they exchange courteous goodbyes, and Combeferre and Enjolras return to the car without additional conversation. Neither of them needs to say anything: the half-hour was penance for underestimating Courfeyrac’s thoroughness, both in affection and in impressing the importance of his role in their group upon Marius. 

They’re sitting at an unnecessarily long red light when Enjolras speaks. “You don’t think…” he starts. “We’re not being dramatic, are we?” It’s the first time either of them has acknowledged _this_ aloud, but the uncertainty is beginning to nibble at him.

Combeferre stares ahead for a long beat before responding. “No. Of course not.”

Nodding, Enjolras brushes away the fleeting doubt. “Just Pontmercy Pontmercy-ing, then.”

Combeferre’s glasses glint in the sun as the light finally shifts to green. “What else can you expect from someone who admires Napoléon?”

**_Thursday_ **

The day hasn’t exactly been hectic or frantic—in fact, Courfeyrac’s absence aside, the entire week has been downright uneventful—but there’s a strange frantic nervousness that’s been coursing through Enjolras for the past four days, and it’s running him down like nothing else.

“Enjolras?” says Jehan gently. “I think it’s about time to start.”

“What? No, we’re still waiting on…” The sentence trails off as he realizes that no, everyone who is supposed to be in attendance today is already present. The look Jehan gives him is apologetic. “Right. Of course."

Clearing his throat, Enjolras turns to address the room. “Good evening everyone.” For the most part it quietens, but in the back corner Grantaire and Bossuet continue laughing into their drinks and elbowing one another raucously. If they keep up like they are, Bossuet is going to owe the Musain another mug before the meeting is over. “Excuse me? Are we about ready to join the class?”

Combeferre has told him, Courfeyrac has told him, _everyone_ has told him not to pay Grantaire any mind when he’s being disruptive, but Enjolras had already been agitated when he stepped through the door.

“Actually, I think I need another several minutes, this room’s vibes are suddenly _atrocious.”_

Vibes? What kind of 70s-era— “You are more than free to find a location better-suited to your spiritual needs.”

“But where else might I find modernday evidence of the validity of the Greeks and Romans, giving credit to Sparta’s devotion to the Sun?” Grantaire continues to ramble as Enjolras’s jaw works, breathing exercises doing little to abate his irritation. Through the sound of his blood thumping in his ears he can vaguely make out that the other man has moved on from singing Enjolras’s praises, now talking in circles around some unholy topic involving revolution and ‘the rarest of Pepes,’ whatever that may mean.

In a final desperate appeal, he looks to Combeferre. His closest ally’s eyes are shut, face wrinkled in pain as his fingertips press against his temples. 

“Can you please,” he hears himself say, “for _once_ in your life, _not?”_

The rambling comes to a halt, Grantaire blinking blankly at Enjolras. The room had picked up conversation again when the man started his digression, but now deathly silence has replaced the amicable background chatter. 

Apparently having regained his bearings, Grantaire takes a sip of his drink before beginning afresh. “My father once told me I was incapable of anything—”

Right. That was impolite.

“—but for you, I may endeavor to try.”

The room remains awkward in its quiet, and though it relieves some of Enjolras’s tension he finds it does nothing to sooth the rising turbulence in his stomach. “Erm. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

A cocky salute comes as answer while Grantaire rises from his seat and heads for the stairs, no doubt with the intent of ordering another drink. The heavy atmosphere persists in the man’s wake.

“I, um.” Thoughts still scrambled and stomach inflamed, he takes a deep breath. “Combeferre, I don’t suppose you can review the minutes from the last meeting and, uh.”

Beside him, still seated, Combeferre stares flatly ahead into space.

“We can do this next week,” Joly offers. “There isn’t anything time-sensitive that needs to be addressed today, I don’t think.”

Nodding slowly, Enjolras ventures another look toward his friend. “That may be—”

“Yes,” Combeferre interrupts. “Wonderful idea.” The clipped declaration is followed by the man standing suddenly and starting for the stairs himself. Enjolras finds himself following close behind.

Combeferre gets this way sometimes when he’s feeling overwhelmed or especially unprepared. There was a time when he would use the escape to smoke, and Enjolras knows that his friend still accepts the occasional cigarette or blunt following particularly bad episodes, but tonight his hands are empty when Enjolras steps out beside him on the balcony.

They stand in mutual silence before Enjolras hears Combeferre take a deep, steadying breath. “I’m sorry, I just. I can’t do tonight.”

Moving in closer beside his friend, Enjolras bumps their shoulders. “Me neither.” The sounds of the city fall over them another minute before he speaks again. “I shouldn’t have antagonized R like that.”

He feels, rather than sees, Combeferre shrug beside him. “It’s been a rough week. You shouldn’t have done it, but you can hardly be expected to handle yourself gracefully every week.”

Most weeks he _can,_ though, and he _should_ be able to be expected to handle himself. 

Frown deepening, he nods. “Want me to leave you be?” 

Normally it doesn’t require asking: Combeferre needs alone-time, but Enjolras and Courfeyrac have never precisely figured into that count, floating zeroes where Combeferre’s personal census is concerned. Everything this week is completely off-kilter, though, and it feels like he should check.

Combeferre’s answer comes small and tired. “Please don’t.”

It’s several more minutes before Combeferre indicates that he is prepared to rejoin the real world. Before they can quite make it into the meeting room, though, they are intercepted.

“Grantaire.” His stomach drops, emotionally unprepared to have to face the man again so soon. Nevertheless, he had spent no small amount of his time outside mulling over this apology. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, there’s no exc—”

“It was just as much you as me, Ap—Enjolras.” The man offers one of the drinks he’s holding. “Pink lemonade, right?”

“Um.” Enjolras tries not to think too hard about why Grantaire knows his beverage of choice. “Yes. You really don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he insists. “Anyway, it’s my fault, I had no business pulling that shit tonight, of all nights.” He’s not entirely certain what Grantaire is referring to, but the admission sits strangely in Enjolras’s chest nevertheless as the man turns to where Combeferre still stands beside him. “And a Gin and Tonic for the tall sir. I didn’t know if you were driving—”

“I’m not,” Combeferre answers automatically.

Grantaire grins wolfishly. “Then the next one’s on me, and I’ll ask Louison to make it burn.”

They file back into the room where everyone else has evidently decided to repurpose the failed meeting into a more casual affair. Eyes fall on them as they enter, conversation faltering in their presence.

Taking a deep breath, Enjolras braces himself to address the rest of his friends. “I spoke with Grantaire already, but I do want to apologize for my earlier outburst and the belated cancellation of the meeting. Thank you all for being so understanding.”

Almost immediately, Joly responds. “Oh, it’s no big deal. Really, we were kind of surprised that the meeting happened at all.”

Pulling over chairs for himself and Combeferre, Enjolras feels his eyebrows draw. “Why’s that?”

“Well, with Courfeyrac out and all,” Bossuet answers with a shrug, as if this somehow explains everything. 

“We’ve had meetings without Courfeyrac before.”

“I mean, not really.” This time it’s Éponine who speaks. “Whenever any of you are absent, something usually comes up that it’s either cancelled, rescheduled, or just becomes a social meeting.” 

Embarrassingly, Enjolras finds that he literally cannot recall a single instance for which this is not true.

“We thought about asking beforehand, but we kind of wanted to see how it would go.” In light of the realization, it’s difficult to begrudge Bossuet that.

Evidently half of a gin and tonic has returned Combeferre to speaking condition. “Is this another secret groupchat?”

Six voices answer a simultaneous and immediate “No,” followed by one slightly belated “Yes.” 

Eyes fall on Éponine as she shrugs. “What? It’s not like Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus over there don’t have their own groupchat without us.”

It’s a fair point, and Enjolras toasts it with a sip of his lemonade.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of you so distressed before, though,” Cosette observes, fishing for her twisty-straw without looking at it. 

Grantaire laughs. “Yeah, well, I don’t think you’ve been here any time that they’ve been apart for more than twenty-four hours.” Having joined just shy of six months ago, it’s not an inaccurate assessment.

“What do you guys normally do when you travel?” she presses.

Finishing his drink, Combeferre replaces his glass on the table with a satisfied sigh. _“Normally_ we have access to a phone or computer and check in with one another. A call a day is fairly standard, though.”

At the smug-looking expressions that follow, Enjolras clarifies defensively, “We don’t always talk, though: sometimes we just leave the call up and work.” The resulting looks tell him that his addition has not had the desired effect.

“When’s the last time you all were apart this long, anyway?” Éponine asks, swinging her legs down from the arm of her chair to the floor.

“Courf’s top surgery, right?” Marius volunteers, but Joly is quick to correct him.

“No, because Enj and Ferre did shifts sleeping in the armchair in his room.” Which is hardly fair, because even if they weren’t best friends Courfeyrac has been coming in with Enjolras for his monthly shots since before the man even started hormones: he would never let his friend go through such a procedure alone.

“Then…?” Cosette prompts.

Brows furrowing, Enjolras searches his memory before turning to look at Combeferre. “There was that camping trip? When we were…eight?”

Combeferre nods, turning to address the others. “The boy scouts wouldn’t let Courfeyrac and Enjolras come along on our sleepaway trip. They tried stowing away in the van, but the scoutmaster found them first. I ended up needing to be taken home before the second night.”

“So ‘never,’” concludes Éponine, bemused.

Enjolras exchanges an embarrassed look with Combeferre. “That. That sounds correct.”

“Disgusting, I love it. _So,”_ Éponine announces, this time to the rest of the room, “who won?”

“Ponty, by an impressive margin,” Grantaire informs them. “I’m not so sure there wasn’t insider trading going on with this one, though.”

“One does not simply live with Courfeyrac for two years without also learning the ways of his friends,” Marius explains sagely. “I have Paypal and Venmo.”

Enjolras waits until his time precariously ushering Combeferre’s sedan through the streets are at a close before falling back into his seat with a sigh. “That…was a night.”

A slow nod comes in response. “‘A night’ indeed.”

He stares out the windshield another beat. “We’re pathetic, aren’t we?”

Silence stretches between them before Combeferre’s response finally comes. “It certainly does appear that way.”

Untold exhaustion of every classification keeps them in their seats until cold drives them to the warm beds in their Courfeyrac-less apartment.

**_Friday_ **

Enjolras has emailed both of his professors and his internship already to let them know that he won’t be in, and when he walks out of his room at eight o’clock in the morning to find Combeferre already on the sofa with some terrible Hallmark classic on he knows that they have a mutual understanding.

Eleven hours into their marathon and half a pizza down, Enjolras speaks for the first time today. “I’m so grateful to have you in my life.”

For a moment he thinks that Combeferre might not have heard him, but after a beat the response comes. “I’m glad you’re in mine too.”

Another moment passes between them. “How do you think Courfeyrac is doing?”

This answer comes even longer-awaited. “It’s Courfeyrac: I’m sure he misses us, but so long as he’s surrounded by people he will be loved.”

Swallowing, Enjolras's eyes drift toward the clock mounted in the space above the TV; he doesn’t need to turn to know Combeferre is doing the same.

_Twenty-three more hours._

**_Saturday_ **

As he approaches the arrivals gate, a very small part of Courfeyrac is afraid that in his weeklong absence his friends have lost all concept of time and that he’ll have to use a car service to get home, but— 

No, that is definitely Enjolras being lectured by airport security, with Combeferre standing not far behind him. Courfeyrac picks up his pace, glad to have only packed a carry-on as he finally pushes his way through the doors and past the rope divider that Enjolras and Combeferre are both maintaining a very conspicuous perimeter from. Before he knows it he is being crushed in exactly the kind of enthusiastic hug he’s been daydreaming about since Sunday, and it’s perfect and wonderful and _home_ and and 

and

and he can’t breath.

“Guys. Hey. Please. I can’t. _Air.”_

His friends jump back, apologizing profusely but preserving an abnormal amount of physical contact for their usual comfort zones—not that he’s complaining. Even the amount of mumbling and stuttering and falling over inane verbal reassurances borders on out-of-character for them, but the fingers of Combeferre’s left hand maintain a steady drum on the man’s outer thigh, and Enjolras’s eyebrows have that peculiar arch to them that he gets when he’s really keyed up about something, so Courfeyrac is satisfied that his best friends have not been replaced with pod-people.

“Excuse me gentlemen,” the security guard who had been speaking with Enjolras before interrupts, “but you’re blocking the walkway and do need to move.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes, but Combeferre smiles graciously. “Thank you Dennis, we’ll be sure to do that.”

Relocation is immediate and efficient, though Courfeyrac suspects that keeping up Combeferre’s rapport with the guard may not be the primary motivation for the haste. He doesn’t have too long to dwell before they’re out of the way and Courfeyrac is dropping his bag to the ground to allow better hugging-access to his friends.

Courfeyrac is certain that he’s absolutely _beaming_ by the time they leave, secure in the knowledge that he is the most loved person who has ever entered or exited this airport.

It’s not that he was under the impression that Combeferre expected him to tuck-and-roll his way out of the car once they got close enough to his building, but Courfeyrac seriously only has one bag, and both Enjolras and Combeferre are following him up the steps.

“I appreciate the thought,” he tells them as they approach the appropriate landing, “but you guys really don’t have to see me to the door. I’m a big kid now, and I’m sure you’re busy.”

The door is already cracked before Courfeyrac realizes that his friends are not quite so empty-handed as he had thought. They push their way into the empty apartment ahead of him, overnight bags in tow.

“Funny you should say that, we’re actually extremely booked,” Enjolras informs him.

“All through until tomorrow morning. Possibly even Sunday evening.”

“Sunday night.”

“Monday morning might be pushing it, but we’re nothing if not dedicated.”

Struck, Courfeyrac can only stare open-mouthed at his friends, whose wry smirks quickly turn to fear.

“That is, of course,” Combeferre assures, “if you want. If you have other plans—”

Whatever ridiculous offer the man was about to make is lost as Courfeyrac pulls him and Enjolras into another crushing hug. _“God_ I’ve missed you two.”

**Author's Note:**

> Marius did have 25 minutes of questions when Ferre and Enj visited, but he also spent five minutes scoping out the situation and promptly upped his wager as soon as the door shut behind them.
> 
> Also, [ThePiecesOfCait illustrated this??](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/post/617201039067758592/happiest-of-birthdays-to-my-one-and-only) And it's??? Amazing?????
> 
> Anything you like? Anything you didn't? Tell me below or reach out to me at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!


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